


Vice

by saltandlimes



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, Pre-Rogue One, implied Orson Krennic/Galen Erso, or at least Tarkin's philosophical and snide version of dirty talk, post Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: Assigned to oversee Sentinel Base, and, unofficially, to keep tabs on Orson Krennic, Wilhuff Tarkin feels like he's finally won. Everyone has their vices, and proving his superiority, both body and mind, well that's a vice Tarkin likes to indulge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE WRITTEN MY BABY TARKIN. 
> 
> _Very_ slight dub-con, see the end notes if you want more explanation.

Tarkin swings down from the speeder, hears his feet thump in the springy ground. The forest around him is quiet, and he takes a deep breath of the crisp air. Rotting vegetation, the greenness of the twilight, the faint metallic edge of the speeder’s exhaust. And something else. He flexes his knees, rocks his weight onto the balls of his feet. Breathes deep once more and lets himself go still inside, silent and poised on the knife-edge of motion. 

Takes a single step forward, tastes the air. Cloves, and the sharp, acrid scent of tabac. He licks his lips, can almost taste it. Tarkin straightens up all the way, hands clasping behind his back. It’s just a few minutes through the forest, the curl of smoke leading the way. 

“That’s a nasty habit, Krennic. Foolish.” There’s a swirl of that terrible cape as Tarkin steps into the clearing, and Krennic whips about to meet him, mouth twisting even as he blows smoke out at Tarkin’s face. 

“And I suppose you have no vices?” Tarkin can feel his cheek twitch and has to smother the smirk that wants to creep across it. Krennic is so much more defensive these days. 

“None that hurt more than they help.” Krennic takes a step forward, lifts the cig to his lips and takes a long drag. This time, Tarkin can’t help the grimace that twists across his face as Krennic exhales, clove scented smoke stinging Tarkin’s eyes. 

“So you admit to having some?” Tarkin tightens his stomach. He will not take a step backward, no matter how foul Krennic is, no matter the soft bow of his lips, no matter the sharp curve of his cheekbones. 

“All men have vices, Krennic. Unless they are fools, or afraid of themselves and their needs. I am neither.” Tarkin plucks the cig from where it perches on Krennic’s pink lower lip. It hisses as it hits the damp forest floor. “We’re all beasts. Me, just as much as anyone else. But I know when and how to behave like one.” 

He takes a single step forward, so close now that he can feel Krennic’s breath whispering smokeless and soft. It’s hot in the tree-dark coolness. He looks down into Krennic's eyes, steel grey and gleaming. The smoke from the dying cig drifts up between them, and as Tarkin watches, Krennic’s gaze darts to the ground, his tongue peeks out to wet the place the cig sat just moments before. The spot gleams dully as Krennic looks up again, slick and bright even in the dimness of the twilight. 

“Why are we here, Tarkin?” Krennic doesn’t step away, and Tarkin almost smiles to feel the whisper of his voice, almost smirks at the disdain in Krennic’s tone. 

“Vice, maybe. Or maybe something else. A chance for you to prove yourself to me, to get back what you lost in the disaster over Erso.” He can’t help himself now, reaches out to catch hold of Krennic’s chin. It’s rough with stubble, the wiry bristles noticeable even through Tarkin’s gloves. Krennic turns his head readily enough, showing first one cheek and then the other to Tarkin. He has tiny freckles across the bridge of his nose, the dust of a thousand stars splattered across his skin. Tarkin gives a short nod. He drops his hand. 

“How?” Krennic doesn’t try to protest their equality this time. Maybe he’s finally come to understand where the power truly lies. It would be a relief. 

“All humans are wild in the end, Krennic. The faster we learn this, the better off we are. And all wild animals have needs. _I_ have needs. I’m sure you do as well.” If Krennic doesn’t catch on, doesn’t offer, Tarkin will find something else he needs from the man. Some other perfect hook to sink into Krennic’s pale, pale skin and tie him so tightly to Tarkin and the Tarkin Initiative that he can never scheme his way out from Tarkin’s control. Something to prove, once and for all, that it is Tarkin who leads, and Krennic who follows, no matter how powerful Krennic thinks himself.

But that’s only if he doesn’t offer that burning, grasping thing Tarkin truly wants.

Vice is one thing. Tarkin has vices. But he’s never been one to take something like that when it's not on offer. There’s no pleasure in that, but more importantly, there’s no gain, no way to weave the web of needs and wants tightly enough to catch someone in its strands. 

Krennic takes a deep breath, chest filling and brushing against Tarkin’s as it expands. 

“What do you want?” Tarkin cocks his head to one side at the question.

“Don’t you already know?” Krennic nods, a slow bob of his head that matches the jolt of his throat as he swallows. “I expect you’ve been… wanting this sort of thing too. Ever since that unpleasantness with Erso, I mean.” It’s a risk, but Tarkin needs to get a measure of this man now, now after so much trouble and so many intrigues. 

Krennic tenses, shoulders drawing up and fists balling at his sides. Tarkin can feel the live-wire of his muscles, can see the almost controlled flutter of a nerve in Krennic’s cheek. Fear, hatred. _Vice._

“You knew about that?” Krennic shakes his head. “Of course you knew. Yes then, I want things, Tarkin.” Krennic’s hands reach up, and detach that ridiculous cape, fingers fumbling a little to separate it from his uniform. But then he’s stepping back, sweeping the cape off to lay it down on the forest floor. 

“What are you doing?” Krennic looks up at him from where he’s starting to free the top clasp of his uniform. 

“I’m not going to scrabble in the dirt for you.” At this, Tarkin can’t help it. He throws back his head, feels the laugh bubbling up out of the pit of his stomach to flutter into the growing darkness. 

“You already are, Krennic. We’re all just animals fucking in the dirt. Why should a little more matter today? Are you afraid of a little mess?” Krennic splutters, his face going bright red even in the twilight. He jerks his head frantically, then tosses the cloak to the ground. His knees thud into the soft turf just after it, and Tarkin wonders if the black fabric will stain. It might, but he’s fairly certain Krennic has had far worse things than dirt splattered across those trousers in the past. 

He hopes Krennic has. There is no room for weakness in this new world. No room for a more “civilized” age. Civilization is not peace, not prosperity. It is not the well ordered turning of the wheel that sentient life uses to beat back the savagery of the galaxy. No, that is fear and lust. They fight the encroaching wilderness. _They_ hold sentient life in check. 

Krennic reaches out, fumbles a little with the wide clasp of Tarkin’s belt. He lets it fall to the ground around Tarkin’s feet, pulls open Tarkin’s tunic. His face is still flame bright, a lock of hair falling across his forehead to tease at the furrow of his brow. Tarkin can feel his stomach muscles jump a little as Krennic’s breath whispers across them. It’s hot, so hot. 

Not a surprise really. Krennic is like fire, raging out of control to consume the very fool it warms. Stealing the breath out of whoever’s lungs are close enough. But fire has ever been the tool of humankind. 

“May I?” There’s a tremor in Krennic’s voice, a flicker of something, and Tarkin glances down to see Krennic shifting on the forest floor. He’s spreading his knees wider, the front of his trousers and his tunic warping around the bulge of his cock. Tarkin lets his shoulders slump, his posture relax.

“Go on then.”

Krennic takes a long lick at the fabric of Tarkin’s trousers. He, himself, isn’t quite hard yet. But the soft pressure of Krennic’s tongue has the blood rushing down to fill his dick. Tarkin sighs. Krennic is sucking at the fabric now, his spit soaking through. It’s a little cold against Tarkin’s skin, sloppy, brutish. 

His breathing speeds. It’s delectable. 

“Do you like that?” Krennic looks up at him from where he’s mouthing over the head of Tarkin’s still covered cock. “Do you like getting your mouth all over my trousers? You’ll certainly never touch a uniform like this in any other context. But you’re right where you belong here, on your knees. The natural order of things, Krennic.”

Krennic pulls away, and Tarkin can’t help but sigh a little at the loss of his mouth, the loss of that soft pressure on his dick. 

“I didn’t imagine you like this.” Krennic cocks his head to one side. 

“Like what?” Tarkin takes the moment to open his trousers, shove them down to pool about his ankles. He traces the line of his cock with narrow fingers, runs his thumb over the head to tease at the slit through the thin fabric of his underclothes. Krennic’s eyes track the motion, narrow a little when Tarkin cups his balls with his free hand. 

“So blunt.”

“Politics is the realm of liars and dream-drunk fools. I am neither. I say what I mean.” Krennic nods. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Tarkin’s underclothes, pulls them down with a quick jerk. His hands are on Tarkin’s dick in an instant, carefully rolling Tarkin’s balls. 

“A little harder,” Tarkin tells him, and a gasp bubbles up in him when Krennic tugs at his cock. His thighs shudder for a moment, insides quaking before he plants his feet more firmly. 

The first pass of Krennic’s tongue over his cock is wet and sweet, sparks flying up to fill Tarkin’s chest at the feel of it. He threads his hand through Krennic’s hair, tugs lightly. 

“You’ve got a lovely mouth, Krennic. Much better like this than giving orders. I’m starting to understand how you got that starcruiser you used to play around with.” Krennic makes a muffled sound around Tarkin’s cock, where he’s filled his mouth with it. He tries to pull off enough to speak, but Tarkin holds him there, feels the hum of Krennic’s words around his dick. They buzz around him, vibrate down to the back of his spine. 

“You don’t have to say it. I know you didn’t sleep your way to the top. Only your way into Galen Erso’s good graces.” Krennic’s eyes flare, but all he does is suck hard at Tarkin’s cock, so hard that it’s almost uncomfortable. Tarkin tugs at the hair he has hold of, and Krennic winces. But he pulls off Tarkin’s dick a little, sucks more softly at the end. It’s wet, messy, spit running down over Tarkin’s balls. He can feel the slick of it on his thighs. 

“I’m not going to run off on you like he did though.” Krennic does pull off this time, chin slick with precome and spit. 

“No. You’re just going to fuck my mouth and leave.” Tarkin laughs, chest going tight at the absurdity. 

“And leave you unsatisfied?” He smoothes his thumb over the mess coating Krennic’s chin, paints it across his lip. “Pleasure is a two way street, Krennic. You’ll get just as much out of this as I will.” Krennic shakes his head a little, purses his lips. Then he’s dipping back down to kiss at the vein pulsing in Tarkin’s cock. 

The bob of Krennic’s head, the soft suck of his lips, the clutch of his throat - Tarkin can’t focus now. They’re too much, the slickness of Krennic’s tongue over his cock making Tarkin’s stomach clench, his back want to arch out of control. He wraps his hand more tightly around the back of Krennic’s neck, tugs at his hair. He moans around Tarkin's cock. Krennic has hand is pressed to the front of his trousers, is rutting up into his own palm as he sucks. 

It’s a pretty sight. 

There’s something horribly appealing about this, something raw and dark and brutal. He wonders what Krennic is thinking about. Is it Galen Erso? Does he wish it was Galen’s cock that filled his throat? Spit drips down across his thighs, Krennic’s mouth sloppy on him. Tarkin gasps as Krennic’s throat constricts around the head of his cock. 

Would Krennic work harder for Galen?

It’s something Tarkin has trouble understanding. It’s not vice, or if it is, it’s a strange sort of desire. To want someone else so much, to want their presence so badly that you’d endanger a project that could help tens of millions. It’s obscene. 

A shudder runs up his spine.

And Krennic is here instead. He’s on his knees in front of Tarkin, because the good of the Empire will always win out. Because whatever strange wanting thing, whatever aching need nestles deep in Krennic’s belly, it’s nothing compared to Tarkin’s need. The need to own Krennic, to use him for the Empire’s sake. For the good of the sprawling masses of sentients that crawl in the dirt. 

He’ll turn Krennic to his own uses, just for that.

He pulls Krennic off of his cock, wraps a fist around it. It’s slick with Krennic’s spit, dripping with precome. Tarkin gasps as he tugs once more, twice. Then he’s coming, back arching a little, weight shifting to his heels as he spills across Krennic’s face and hair. He shudders. 

He buries a hand in Krennic’s hair, strokes at the sopping strands. They’re clumped together with sweat and Tarkin's own come. Tarkin’s cock throbs again as he looks at it. He licks his lips. 

“Get up,” he orders, and Krennic struggles to his feet. Tarkin keeps a hand buried in his hair, keeps petting through the mess he’s made of Krennic’s perfect face. He tugs Krennic’s head to his shoulder, reaches into Krennic’s trousers. 

He can smell his own come, scent thick and sharp as he presses his cheek to the ruin of Krennic’s hair. Krennic is panting against him, small whimpering noises spilling out as he ruts against the hand Tarkin has slipped in his trousers. Tarkin fingers though Krennic’s hair, rubbing the come in a little more thoroughly. Marking the sign of his superiority just a bit more clearly on Krennic's skin.

“More…” Krennic gasps out, his cock twitching against the fingers Tarkin has rubbing at the head. Tarkin grins, wraps his hand more tightly along Krennic’s dick. It's a tight fit, Krennic filling his trousers out, hot and slick.

“What a pretty beast you make, Krennic. I knew you'd be like this. Once that mask falls away, you're nothing more than a needy child playing at the games of your betters.” Krennic snarls, but he ruts harder into Tarkin's hand, throwing his head back to pant. Tarkin tightens his grip, tugs harder.

“Do you want me to make you come? Can you ask for it?” Tarkin leads down, licks a stripe of his own come from Krennic’s face. He can taste Krennic's skin through the thickness of his come, the clove musk of it. It's sweat-sweet. He lets go of Krennic's hair, shifts his hand down to palm at Krennic's ass. 

“Fuck it Tarkin. Come on!” Krennic’s voice is harsh, and he trembles as Tarkin kneads the curve of his ass. It's lovely, tight muscle with just the right amount of give, the right softness born of Krennic's long hours as an administrator. Tarkin's cock throbs a little in spite of itself and he tightens his grip on Krennic as a result. 

Krennic gasps, shuddering, arching between Tarkin's hands, and then he's coming, spilling into his trousers and Tarkin strokes at the shaft of his dick. Tarkin waits until he's almost spent to thumb over the head of Krennic's cock, and Krennic huffs in overstimulation.

Tarkin dips his hand into Krennic's pocket while the younger man is still shuddering out his orgasm. Both of Tarkin's hands are tacky with come now, and there are bound to be streaks of it painting Krennic's uniform. Tarkin smirks at the thought.

Then he flicks open the small box he's retrieved from Krennic's pocket. There's a hiss and a crackle as he lights the cigarette, a single drag on it to get it started. Tarkin breathes out and the scent of cloves fills the clearing. He sets it on Krennic's open, panting lips, and steps back.

Krennic pulls smoke into his lungs, chest expanding wide with his deep breath. Tarkin brings the hand coated with Krennic's come to his mouth, licks it away as he watches Krennic smoke for a new moments. It's sweeter than his own spend.

“What's this for?” Krennic waves the cigarette after few drags.

“We all have our vices, Commander Krennic. Far be it for me to take away what little pleasure you now have.” Tarkin smirks. _What little pleasure you have now that I've helped Galen Erso escape from you._

And perhaps that, that is Tarkin’s vice. The need to win, to prove himself better than any beast that dares challenge his lofty perch. But as vices go, at least he's come by his honestly.

**Author's Note:**

> Dub-con aspects: Tarkin implies if Krennic gives him a blow job, it will further Krennic's career. Krennic might plausibly feel obliged. Tarkin also thinks to himself about why he doesn't enjoy non-con in a rather callous manner. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Thanks to the twit enablers and to the Tarkin squad on tumblr for being a continual inspiration. I love y'all.
> 
> Come join in carousing on tumblz [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
